


Little Deaths

by silkinsilence



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/F, Gun Kink, Humiliation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder Kink, Outdoor Sex, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Characterization?, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Two references to Greek myth barely a paragraph apart, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 20:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17029863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: The Widowmaker was not made to want. But every time she pulls the trigger, she does.





	Little Deaths

**Author's Note:**

> Succinctly, Widow gets off on murdering people and Moira, uh...""helps."" Porn with characterization and self-hatred. Aligns with my other Widow fics (namely [pas de deux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14354652) and [in the morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088154)) in that Moira is responsible for the Widowmaker's brainwash/torture/creation. Warning for aforementioned murder, the gross dynamic, Widow's self-hatred, and an extreme disregard for gun safety.

There are eyes trained on her. There are always eyes. There is always someone watching, and it feels to the Widowmaker that it is always the same person. Blue and red. Fire and water. Blood, present and absent oxygen.

Her own eyes are focused on the target. She is still as a statue as she makes the tiny movement necessary to sever a human life fifteen hundred meters away.

She does not wince at the noise as she pulls the trigger. She used to flinch at the almighty _crack_ of Widow’s Kiss, but additional conditioning addressed that flaw. Tenseness, nervousness, fear; any of these things can affect her aim. And in this, even a hair’s motion is too much. Mind and body; she must be still. She must be still.

Through the scope she sees the unfortunate man die. She sees red blossom into the air as his skull ruptures. She sees him crumple, sees a crimson puddle form as his brains and blood coalesce on the ground. A masterpiece. Undoubtedly a more exquisite work than anything he accomplished in life.

She closes her eyes. The woman standing a few meters behind her cannot tell if she closes her eyes. The rest of her must remain completely still, but she allows herself that.

The sensation goes through her as if she took a shot as well. The warmth erupts through her fingers and up and down her spine and ends torturously between her thighs. She allows her lips to part. She needs more. She needs to _touch._ Her new body is still foreign to her, but she knows that if she let her hand go wandering she would find herself soaking. She knows that if she let herself touch, the feeling would resolve in an instant. She would kill and then she would come, a headier sensation than anything else she is allowed.

But she does not allow herself anything more than closing her eyes, because she is being watched, and because she is the Widowmaker. She is without thought or feeling or desire. If the woman watching her knew of this _aberrance,_ she would eliminate it, as she has eliminated all of the Widowmaker’s other flaws. And though the Widowmaker wishes for her own perfection, wishes for the cold embrace of flat serenity, she cannot allow herself to relinquish this single moment of exquisite torment.

So she pulls the trigger, and she hovers on the edge of feeling more than she is allowed, until the feeling ebbs as the man’s blood on the stone goes cold and her ears slowly begin to recover from the shock of the sound.

“That’s ten consecutive successes. No missed shots,” a soft, pleased voice sounds from behind her. “Excellent work, Lacroix.”

She is cold again. _Lacroix_ rings in her ears, and suddenly she is thinking of kissing a man with a contagious laugh and a smile like he knew all the world’s secrets. She is thinking of him inside her and of his mouth upon her and—

That is not her. That is not her. She is immaculate. She is the Widowmaker, and Amélie Lacroix is _dead._

Number twelve dies messily. The shot pulverizes his skull. Once there was hair and eyes and a nose and a mouth, but in an instant as she watches through the scope there is nothing but gore. It is night, so the blood looks black upon the pavement. But his head lies in chunks on the ground and the Widowmaker grits her teeth very tightly together and lets her eyes roll upward and focuses only on not letting her legs tremble. She is a statue. She does not feel; she _should_ not feel. But as long as nobody knows, she can revel in this smallest of insurrections.

She does not know who the people are or where Talon gets them. They could be prisoners or deserters or simply unfortunates picked off the streets. The Widowmaker knows only that they are all released into the deserted rubble of what was a town before the Crisis and told one thing:

_Escape, and you’re free to go._

None of them escape.

But she utterly lacks the capability to worry about the strangers who die one after another at her hands. They are important only in the instant of near-pleasure they bring her.

If she could worry about anything, it would be that same reaction. She is certain it is getting stronger, getting _worse._ Each time holding still becomes more difficult. Each time she comes a little closer to forgetting why she isn’t allowed to touch herself.

Eventually, she fears, she will forget completely, and the few seconds of euphoria she will manage to wring from her unwilling body will be nothing to the torture that follows. And when Talon finds out, they are certain to eliminate this taste of bliss. The fiery-haired monster of a doctor who presides over her every breath will take that from her with a smile.

She knows this, and she fears this, but she cannot stop her body’s reaction. She finds herself looking forward to the days when she is taken from her cell to practice on human rats running a maze. Long before the kill, her body is primed for it. She is taut and on-edge and expectant.

She is as Tantalus, desperately hungry, only to have the meal ripped from her just before it passes her lips.

There are always eyes. Privacy is not something allotted her, nor is it something she should desire. She should desire nothing. She should feel nothing. Even in her cell there are cameras, and she knows that those red and blue eyes are on the other side. She is never unobserved. She is Talon’s most prized weapon. So she sits or lies in her room and relives every shot she has taken while keeping herself still and unassuming. She falls asleep with her mind wrapped in a gentle cocoon of blood-red.

She never dreams.

“Brilliant,” the doctor says one afternoon during a routine examination, sweeping burning eyes up and down her naked form. “Perfect.”

The Widowmaker raises her chin and meets the gaze silently. To O’Deorain, she knows, she is an experiment. A creation. Galatea sculpted and brought to life, molded not from a block of marble but from the stolen and ruined body of another woman. When the doctor looks at her, she sees only her own work. The Widowmaker is not allowed thoughts or desires outside of that work.

But when the stethoscope, ice-cold, rests upon her sternum, she cannot stop herself. Her skin tingles. She is in an examination room, brightly-lit and sterile, but the sensation awakens in her as if she was in her perch overlooking the ruined town. She breathes slow and deep and thinks of blood on broken concrete. Her hands, empty and limp at her sides, conjure the ghost of Widow’s Kiss.

O’Deorain’s fingers stroke along her neck and then press lightly to inspect her lymph nodes. Those fingers could press harder. They could cut off air. They could be lips instead, kissing, sucking.

He did such things.

The thought is almost enough to dampen her arousal, but not quite. Not quite. She wants too much and is too distant from the memory of the man who died at her hands. Amélie Lacroix died with Gérard; now the Widowmaker stands naked in a room while Moira O’Deorain inspects her for imperfections.

The long nails just barely scratch her skin as the doctor’s hands move to her armpits. They are close, now, to her breasts. The touch is almost electric. It takes an effort to remain still, but she must manage it. She will not fall. Not here and not like this, to a carnal impulse she is not supposed to experience at all.

The fingers gently massage her. One of O’Deorain’s hands is warm; the other distinctly less so. The warm one seems almost to _burn_ her skin. How would that touch feel elsewhere? How would it feel where she wants it?

She tries to redirect her thoughts, but they land on the only thing Talon has taught her to do. She envisions the people she has killed. She envisions each perfect shot and each perfect corpse. These thoughts are not helpful in assuaging the feeling burning under her skin. She imagines blood and can almost feel it, taste it, smell it. She can hear the _crack_ and feel the warmth of Widow’s Kiss under her hands.

O’Deorain moves lower. Her ribs. Her sides. Her waist. Her hips. How evident is her desire?

She cannot close her eyes while the doctor is facing her. She cannot give an inch. She can only force herself to be a statue as she wonders and wants and silently _begs_ the hands to go where she wants them.

Such desires are human, aren’t they, and natural? She has not been able to touch herself since she killed Gérard. She has not orgasmed since months before that. Surely it is natural to lust.

But she is _not_ human, the cold flat voice in her head reminds her. Not any longer. And she should not feel at all. She does not hunger. She does not thirst. She eats and drinks and relieves herself on a perfect schedule and derives no joy from any of it.

But she _wants._

Defective.

Fifteen is a woman. All her previous quarries have been men, human men. Talon trained her on omnics first. It is easier to sever a machine’s life than a human’s. But the Widowmaker has taken to the latter like a swan to water. All death is the severing of electricity, but unlike omnics, humans let out blood and bone and soft tissue. Their life leaving their bodies leaves an indelible mark on the ground. Perhaps Talon expected that to revolt her. Instead it has consumed her.

She can almost feel the doctor’s eyes boring into the back of her head. Is this another hidden test? Does O’Deorain expect her to show pity now?

Through the scope she sees Fifteen running along a street and ducking into the ruins of what was a bakery before the Crisis. Through the scope she can see that the woman has pale skin and dark hair and a young, pretty face. The others have all been older, rougher-looking. Briefly she wonders where Talon got this one, but the thought drifts on in an instant. It is not in her to wonder.

The girl is relatively smart; she dodges from cover to cover. But a long stretch where all standing walls have been demolished will leave her exposed. She cannot comprehend it, but her life has only a few seconds left.

The Widowmaker’s heart begins to beat faster. The feeling stirs in her again. She feels her pulse in her throat and her stomach and, agonizingly, between her legs. The woman will die beautifully, and the Widowmaker will come just the slightest bit closer to life.

The girl makes her move. Cover is gone. She is darting down the empty block. The crosshairs of Widow’s Kiss inch inexorably onto the space her head will occupy an instant from now. The Widowmaker’s finger tenses on the trigger.

But she does not shoot.

It would be so _easy._ She’s taken out at least four others on the same stretch. But she can do better, can manage shots that are much, much harder.

More than that, more than the excuse that perhaps would satisfy Talon, she wants the feeling to last. She wants to nurture that blooming warmth for as long as she can. The anticipation has become half the fun. It would be a shame to end it so soon. Given how difficult it has become to hide it, undoubtedly she will fail sooner or late, and then it will be ripped from her. So now, in this moment, she chooses to savor it.

“You could have gotten her there,” O’Deorain coolly observes. Her voice, the reminder of observation, is chilling. The Widowmaker resents it.

“Too easy,” she says. Short. Clipped.

“Are you going to let her go?”

The Widowmaker doesn’t dignify that with a response.

The girl is safely behind cover now. Her figure glows eerie red through the walls as the Widowmaker traces her progress through the scope. Fifteen has lasted longer than any of the others, thanks to her would-be killer momentarily staying her hand. She has less than a quarter-kilometer to the sign marking the edge of the town. Then the road stretches into farmland, horribly exposed, but per Talon’s promise to the runners the Widowmaker will not shoot once she passes that point.

This town, tucked away in the French countryside, reminds her of Gérard’s hometown, though that was far to the northeast. Amélie Lacroix married him in the church there in front of a very small audience. Gabriel Reyes and Ana Amari and Jack Morrison were in attendance. They smiled and offered gifts and wished the newlyweds well. A handful of years later they let both of them suffer ignoble ends.

But those are not thoughts for the here and now. There is time for bitter recollections when she sits alone in her cell or goes under the knife or endures the latest torture designed to _perfect_ her. Now there is just her and Widow’s Kiss and the girl running for her life.

And O’Deorain, silently watching.

The girl slips into what used to be a brasserie, still mostly intact. If she takes the back door, she’ll be in an alleyway and much more shielded. Indeed, the Widowmaker won’t be able to hit her there.

But the girl slows once she thinks she’s safe. The tiny target that is her head moves only little by little. She does not know that a pair of crosshairs have trained themselves on her. She approaches the window.

The Widowmaker tenses. Every nerve, every _cell_ of her is suddenly alight. This is what she was made to do. Her heart is going faster than it should be, faster than her new body can sustain. She wants what comes next. She is so desperate for it. The past week since she stood in this perch, the relentless time under O’Deorain’s thumb and locked up in her cage of a room—it pays off now.

The girl steps in front of the window.

The bullet is faster than the sound. The girl is dead, perhaps, before the _crack_ rends the air. The Widowmaker doesn’t know, but she imagines it: synapses ceasing to fire, soft tissue liquefying, the heart stopping.

The Widowmaker gasps. She cannot help herself. Her arms drop and her back arches.

Without the scope she can’t see, but the scene is already etched into her mind. The window did not break where the bullet entered it, but cracks formed a spiderweb around the hole. A fitting symbol. The glass was splattered with blood and brain along with the dust and dirt that had gathered there. And the girl, the girl, in a crumpled heap, all her dreams of escaping revealed for the foolish fantasies they are. Nobody escapes Talon. Nobody escapes the Widowmaker.

She is _aching_ and she can’t take it. It is an entirely different sort of torture than that to which she has become accustomed. Already she has reacted too much. What is a little more?

“What are you doing, Lacroix?”

Her hand is inching toward her center when the voice interrupts her. That damned voice, those eyes, always watching—and for a brief instant the Widowmaker dreams of spinning and ending O’Deorain the same way she ended the girl.

But she does not. The question has frozen her again. Her mind skitters between fear and desire, between images of the girl dying and the thought of what retribution these actions will earn her.

Images of O’Deorain dead on the ground. Their roles reversed. Her face cold and her smirk gone forever.

“Answer.”

There is a bite to her tone this time. The threat is not longer implicit. The Widowmaker wets her lips.

“It feels...”

She lets her rasp of a voice trail away. Surely that is enough. Those are the two words that are meant to be antithetical to her entire existence.

But O’Deorain wants more.

“Tell me how it feels.”

She cannot. She _will not._ If she has learned anything about the woman standing behind her, it is that she will dissect anything with fervent intensity. She will dig and dig until she reaches the source of an _imperfection._ The Widowmaker is already an experiment, already O’Deorain’s creation, but she will not surrender this single remaining piece of herself.

Yet her pride is lessening its iron grip second by second. She needs to touch. She needs friction. She is so close to letting her hips grind down hard against Widow’s Kiss, or to dropping the gun that has become an extension of her and using her own hands. Consequences be damned; what can O’Deorain do to her that she hasn’t already?

O’Deorain’s tone changes. The Widowmaker can imagine the little smirk she would see if she looked over her shoulder. The smirk she would love to wipe off the doctor’s face someday.

“That really was a remarkable shot. The timing...I hardly think you need more of these exercises. I’ll report that you’ve outgrown them—”

“ _No!_ ”

The word bursts from between her lips. It is more taboo and childish than the phrase she uttered earlier, but she no longer cares. There is only panic and desperation at the thought of losing—losing—

“No, no, _please,_ no—”

She is Amélie again, trapped in an underground cell and begging for mercy. Some part of her is aware of this even as the desperate words slip from her tongue, and this part despises her.

When O’Deorain speaks again, she is closer. Perhaps just a foot away now. The Widowmaker will not turn to see. She will not look at that face.

“What is it you want, Lacroix?”

Her desires are vulgar things, thoughts that have never passed her lips. Shame and pride hold her frozen in their merciless grip while lust burns its fuse away. The girl is dying over and over again. Blood splatters the window. Between her cold thighs, her clitoris _throbs._

“I want...”

 _To touch, to come, to feel, to_ feel—

“I want to feel good,” she manages, and the sound is the closest she has come to a sob since she murdered her husband in the bed they shared.

O’Deorain is there. Her body is burning hot against the Widowmaker’s back.

This is not what she wanted, not what she asked for. She despises O’Deorain. She wanted—herself—

But fingers, hot and cold, slip under her collar and push the thin cloth from her shoulders. The touch is electric, like it is during examinations, and she forgets what she thought she wanted. This is enough. This is more than enough. Now she doesn’t feel the need to stay still and quiet. She lets her breath heave as O’Deorain divests her of the excuse for clothing Talon makes her wear.

Those vicious nails pinch her nipple and the sound she makes is abhorrent, as is the way she arches her back into it. _More,_ she insists silently. O’Deorain latches on to the second and the Widowmaker can _feel_ herself gush. She has never felt like this, like every nerve is on fire. She has never felt so _alive._ Her hips are rolling now, wanton and without restraint. The solid mass of Widow’s Kiss is at once heaven and hell for her aching folds.

She hears O’Deorain laugh low in her ear, and the sound rankles, but then warm, dry lips are teasing her earlobe and kissing her neck, and lust tamps down pride once more. It feels good. It feels _so good._

She lets her head tilt back. One of the hands releases her breast and she grunts resistance, but then there is pressure at her scalp as O’Deorain works the tie out of her hair.

Lust burns into fury in an instant. How _dare_ she? How dare she pervert this most solipsistic of rituals? Each day the Widowmaker stands in her cell and lets her hair down and slowly combs it out before she goes to sleep. For a sniper, having hair down and loose is nothing but a susceptibility. With her hair down, she cannot really be called the Widowmaker; she is too vulnerable for that.

But O’Deorain likes her vulnerable, she thinks, and when that same hand seizes and pulls _hard_ it pulls too an unwilling moan from the back of her throat.

She asked to be made to feel _good_ , but perhaps that’s not quite what she wants.

“Stop moving,” O’Deorain commands, and the Widowmaker is well-conditioned enough that her hips come to a shuddering halt. Her clitoris, abandoned, erect, throbs so hard it hurts. Her entrance is slick and messy and empty, so empty.

 _Dégoûtant,_ she idly informs herself. _Chienne en chaleur._

Teeth dig into her throat. O’Deorain is not gentle when she sucks and worries the skin. The Widowmaker lets her head fall back, less to assuage the strain on her scalp and more because it feels right. She feels like a kitten caught by the scruff of the neck. Pliant. Powerless.

She should not enjoy that, and indeed loathing burns in her stomach at herself and the woman molesting her. But her body likes the bite, and she likes the licks O’Deorain laves over it, and she likes the next one even more.

There will be bruises. The collar of her uniform is high, but the front leaves her so exposed. Every person she passes in Talon headquarters will surely mark the regions where her skin is mottled dark blue and purple. They will say nothing, but they will take note. Will they wonder who left them, or is it obvious? The Widowmaker, Amélie Lacroix, already O’Deorain’s pet through-and-through?

The teeth release, and O’Deorain soothes her with kisses against her jaw, under her ear, down her spine. Her fingers pull and twist her nipple until her breast is aching, but every pinch makes her wetter, makes her clit throb again.

“ _Harder,_ ” she hisses, and hates herself for it.

O’Deorain chuckles into her shoulder, and then her teeth are digging in again, and she yanks the Widowmaker’s hair once more, and _yes,_ it’s good, but it is not enough. She needs what she has needed since the beginning, since Widow’s Kiss reverberated with a bullet released and the dead woman’s brains splattered onto the window of the abandoned store. She needs what she has needed for weeks and months before that.

“Touch me.”

The sound is guttural, almost unnatural. She can hardly recognize her own voice. Indeed, she can hardly recognize herself in any of this. She was made to kill, and _only_ to kill.

“I _am_ touching you, Lacroix,” O’Deorain drawls, and her wicked nails release her nipple only to scratch hard across her breast. The Widowmaker makes a high-pitched noise that dies in her throat. She does not know which of them she hates more in this moment, but she knows what she needs, and she knows that she cannot stop herself from begging for it. Perhaps that is what she hates most of all, that she has lost even the illusion of control. There is no more hiding the pathetic thing she is.

“Touch me or let me do it myself.”

“So demanding,” O’Deorain says. She releases her handful of hair and lets her hand come to rest instead on the Widowmaker’s shoulder, fingers curling down just beside her windpipe. “Did I teach you to command me?”

She stiffens. The threat is not lost on her. Though she might posture, coldly ask what else O’Deorain could possibly do to her, there is still something human in her. She still fears pain.

Then O’Deorain has the nerve to _laugh,_ and she drags her nails across the Widowmaker’s other breast and then pinches her nipples hard for good measure while the Widowmaker’s blood boils.

“Lean forward,” O’Deorain commands, and a shove in the small of the back accompanies her words. Widow’s Kiss clatters onto the ground as the Widowmaker braces her hands on the stone wall. Without the scope, all she sees is French hamlet made a ghost town by the crisis. No blood. No corpses. But her mind populates them all the same, and her blood races at both the thoughts and O’Deorain’s insults.

Her back feels abruptly cold and exposed when O’Deorain pulls away, but the sensation of the doctor pushing her clothing down distracts her. The suit comes to rest crumpled at her ankles where her prosthetics meet flesh, leaving her just in the shorts that serve for underwear.

A sharp fingernail drags between her labia where the outline of them is surely visible through the skin-tight cloth. The Widowmaker rocks into the touch and is rewarded when O’Deorain’s warm hand cups her. She feels fiery hot even with the barrier of cloth. Without it…

The Widowmaker is not made to wonder for long. O’Deorain hooks her fingers in the waistband, taking no care with her nails, and yanks down. And then there is cold air against her hot, needy center, and the Widowmaker lets out a desperate, choked noise.

“You’re _soaking, huntress_ ,” O’Deorain says with something approaching reverence. “Does killing do this to you?”

There is an edge of mockery in her voice, and the anger surfaces again. How else is she supposed to be? How is she supposed to react? _She did not make herself!_

But then anger disappears in a swell of heat and arousal as O’Deorain’s fingers spread her sopping entrance open, and, to the Widowmaker’s surprise, her mouth alights there.

She cannot stop from crying out, louder than any of the previous sounds. It is so hot it almost hurts. O’Deorain’s breath washes against every inch of her wetness, and when her tongue licks a lazy circle about her hole, she thinks she could come in seconds.

How long has she wanted? How long has she been left wet and cold and untouched? Now a firm tongue strokes between her lips, gathers up every drop she has spilled and pulls more nectar from her.

She lets one arm remain braced against the stone, but her other comes up to tease her breasts and nipples. She looks down at herself and is even more aroused by the sight of dark, angry lines marring her skin. She is so used to seeing it smooth and untouched and perfect, but somehow it looks so much better like this. Just like people look better with their brains spilled out on the cobblestones.

That thought makes her grind down against O’Deorain’s face. She feels teeth close down on her clit in retribution, but when it sends electric jolts of sensation through every inch of her she can hardly complain. O’Deorain’s hands are keeping her spread and open, and her tongue draws slow lines between her clit and entrance, and the still night is broken by her moans and gasps as they slip into the cool air. She spits on the graves of every corpse in the village who thought they could escape her. They died here so she could feel this.

O’Deorain devours her like she has never been devoured before, and if it does not feel like power or control at least it feels like ecstasy.

She ruts without care against the doctor’s face, clitoris bumping against her chin. There is just the wet furnace of her mouth, her clever tongue, her sharp nails stroking her lips, and the memories of her victims playing in her mind’s eye like a snuff film. This is what she wanted. This is what she wanted, isn’t it?

She is going to come, at last, with one hand spread on the rock and the other torturing her aching nipples, with Moira O’Deorain attending to the sloppy mess between her thighs, with the night air and the knowledge that she is sure to suffer for this pressing down on her.

And the wave builds, and builds, and the noises coming from her mouth are animal, and she closes her eyes to savor the sensation—

It doesn’t come.

O’Deorain’s mouth is gone, leaving behind it her entrance wet and cold and clenching around nothing, and her body wracked with the torture of an orgasm stolen before its peak.

“What—?”

She glances angrily over her shoulder for the first time that night, but she can hardly take in O’Deorain’s smile or the slick gleaming around her mouth before she realizes what the doctor is doing, and suddenly every part of her is on edge.

O’Deorain is picking up Widow’s Kiss, and the Widowmaker is furious at her for defiling the gun with her touch, but much more than that she is suddenly afraid. Is this how the night ends? Is her desire a transgression, an aberration, that cannot be corrected? She would have imagined it with a syringe and a tiny prick on the neck, not with a bullet.

Then again, she supposes she’ll reap what she’s sown.

“I told you to bend over.”

O’Deorain’s voice is cold. The Widowmaker obeys, snapping her gaze back to the ruined village, now wondering if it will be the last thing she sees.

But when Widow’s Kiss touches her, it is not against her skull.

The sensation between her legs makes her jaw drop and her thighs spread in a silent invitation. The gunmetal has cooled from the shot; now it is pleasantly icy as the barrel nestles between her lips and prods her clit. She grinds down, insatiable, chasing the relief she was denied. O’Deorain chuckles again, and the Widowmaker reflects that her previous position was certainly good at shutting her up.

The gun moves and she whines, and then the muzzle is pressing against her entrance.

It is absurd, really, to be surprised. It is absurd to think that, after everything O’Deorain has done to her, she would not do this. But the shame of being fucked on her own gun burns in her gut and the back of her throat and in her mind.

Or perhaps it is the shame of offering no resistance. Of canting her hips upward and letting the barrel slide in to assuage that horrible emptiness.

Her walls clench around it. It is thick and hard and cold inside her, utterly foreign. The thickness stretches her and the combination of saliva and her body’s lubricant is not quite enough to make it comfortable, but O’Deorain pushes Widow’s Kiss steadily in until the muzzle bumps roughly against her cervix. There is some sick kind of symmetry there, the Widowmaker thinks. Birth and death, meeting in her body. Her hole the site of their union.

Then O’Deorain begins moving the gun in earnest, and there is little time for thinking.

The doctor has no interest in gentleness. Again and again the muzzle slams deep into her. Again and again it pulls almost all the way out. The force of each thrust forces her body to rock against the wall, and her tender clit is roughly dragged along the stone. It hurts, inside and out. It is too deep and too thick and too monstrous. But she lets her hips rock back down to meet her own rifle sheathed inside her. She urges it deeper. She feels her body scrape against the stone and thinks of the marks that will cover her tomorrow.

The barrel slips out entirely and cool air fills her. Her stomach drops and a new terror grips her, and she cannot stop herself, again, from begging.

“Please, please, don’t—stop—”

For once O’Deorain doesn’t laugh. This does little to preserve her pride as Widow’s Kiss slams back into its mistress and her arms give way. She collapses onto the wall, able only to use her legs to push back against each merciless thrust. She can hear the awful sounds leaving her lips, as well as the wet, fleshy noises of her body reacting to the thing inside her. She is so wet for it.

O’Deorain alters the angle of her thrusts slightly, and suddenly a pressure against her front wall makes the Widowmaker cry out. Then there is no mercy: the muzzle rails into that spot over and over, each thrust resounding inside and out as her clit brushes the stone.

She loses herself in it. She cannot be aware of what she is doing; it is too averse to who and what she is supposed to be. So she lets disgust and judgment go and becomes cognizant only of the intimacy between her and the weapon with which she has taken so many lives.

She thinks of blood splattering against a window—

Of heat under her hands and that ear-shattering _crack—_

Of Gérard limp and dying and dead—

Of O’Deorain pulling the trigger.

She comes howling with her own gun kissed up against her cervix and her eyes rolled back in her head. Her heart is racing and her breath is coming too fast. Stars burst in front of her vision. For an instant, nothing hurts. For an instant, it is worth it.

Only an instant.

She comes back to herself slowly. She feels light-headed and off-balance. Her body is scraped up from rubbing against the rock; the throbbing of her nipples and clitoris is now much more painful than pleasant.

O’Deorain pulls the barrel out without ceremony and lets Widow’s Kiss clatter to the ground again. Her hole feels empty and stretched without it. Cold. Used.

O’Deorain’s warmth pressed against her again is alarming, especially when she feels a familiar pinch at her neck. She freezes as O’Deorain injects whatever substance into her and pulls the needle out again.

“Adenosine. Your heart’s racing.”

She steps away. The Widowmaker is grateful for the distance. She lets her body slump against the stone. Moving is too much of an energy expenditure to think about.

“I will be waiting at the transport.”

O’Deorain’s footsteps recede. The Widowmaker breathes in and out until she cannot hear the doctor’s retreat anymore. Then she wants to scream, but she cannot scream. What has she done? What did she do? How could she let any of what just happened happen?

Her body is covered in scratches from the stone and O’Deorain’s fingernails. Some of the wounds are oozing blood. The space between her legs is aching now. She will be sore tomorrow, horribly sore, and still they will force her to perform on the training grounds.

She collapses onto the ground. The effort of standing, let alone of pulling her clothes back up and walking to the ship, is far beyond her reach. Her pounding heart echoes in her ears. She looks blankly down at Widow’s Kiss, no longer an instrument of smooth and beautiful murder but something...else.

Her wetness glimmers on the barrel. The sight makes her want to throw up.

She wonders if there will be a next time for the little ruined village. The next time she kills, she will remember this.

She does not think she will enjoy it.

It would have been better, she thinks, to never have acted on the fantasy. To have let her desires remain pure anticipation, heightened, tantalizing. To dwell forever in that moment between the trigger pull and the body falling.

To have remained a statue all along, rather than needing to become one again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated!


End file.
